


The Crimson Special

by PurpleCompromise



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/M, Lapdance, Reader-Insert, The Specialist, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:37:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleCompromise/pseuds/PurpleCompromise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About a ten miles outside the weary, little town of Teufort, Arizona, there’s a vast expanse of desert. If you stop looking at the horizon, however, (impressive as it is), you might notice the little sign that accompanies a ramp off the main road that curves down one of the cracked, orange hills. The little sign reads: “RED Merc’s, exit 2” (there’s nearly nowhere to go on one’s way from Phoenix to Teufort). If you don’t know it’s there, you might miss it entirely. If you don’t know what it means, you’ll simply overlook it.</p><p>But if you’re in The Know…</p><p>As they say in the city, quietly, out of polite company:</p><p>Topless Entertainment.<br/>---</p><p>Oops I accidentally did a short piece based on thatdamnokie's Strip Club AU concept for TiWWaN (“spec works for a club owned by the blue administrator. every other night, a mysterious high roller with an accent, red tie and white shirt comes in. he’s always alone. she’s curious”).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Crimson Special

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [This Is Where We Are Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3990601) by [PurpleCompromise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleCompromise/pseuds/PurpleCompromise). 



> The POV here is a little different, as is the style, but I think you’ll enjoy it nonetheless. Pretty much everything is period-appropriate except the second song used wasn’t written until 1974. But y’know. It’s an AU. We can pretend it was written eariler.
> 
> And yes, I did briefly research a strip club that’s been around since 1964 to model this after

About ten miles outside the weary, little town of Teufort, Arizona, there’s a vast expanse of desert. If you stop looking at the horizon, however, (impressive as it is), you might notice the little sign that accompanies a ramp off the main road that curves down one of the cracked, orange hills. The little sign reads: “RED Merc’s, exit 2” (there’s nearly nowhere to go on one’s way from Phoenix to Teufort). If you don’t know it’s there, you might miss it entirely. If you don’t know what it means, you’ll simply overlook it.

But if you’re in The Know…

Perhaps you are a friend one of the usual clientele. Maybe you know one of the employees. Perhaps it was whispered in your ear or slipped to you across the desk of some savvy concierge. Maybe you’re simply following a rumor.

In any case, if you know, you’ll take that bumpy exit and find yourself pulling into the narrow drive of a place too ritzy for the surrounding, empty hills. Little, white lights are strung around the veranda and a larger, proper sign, glowing with cheerful paint and neon in the blue evening: RED Merc’s - - Complete Show.

And, once you pass the giant at the door, into low-lit, smoky rooms, the swing of a saxophone reaches your ears and the scent of sweat and alcohol tingles your nose—you know what’s in store. As they say in the city, quietly, out of polite company:

Topless Entertainment.

~

Oh, the acts are _marvelous_. Anyone that can afford the trip each weekend returns to the tables, to their brandy and beer, to the brilliant tablecloths, to the glossy stage and plush carpet, to swinging hips and armless chairs, each breath leaden with blue-tinged smoke and heady cologne. The first dance each night—and your favorite, certainly—belongs to a man they call Tavish. (Sure, you were surprised to find a gentleman heading the night’s _entertainments_ , and so are, you’re sure, most patrons their first time, but you hardly mind; in fact, the inclusion of men in this lineup is part of the reason you came in the first place). Tavish is an absolute vision: ebony skin and strong jaw, a rolling curve to his shoulders, jutting hipbones that should make anyone jealous, and his rhythm…! You often find yourself wishing there were arms on the chairs so that you could dig your fingers into them until your knuckles turned white and the urge to get up on that stage to find out just what he could do passed. He practically glows under the lights, and after their first time, no one wonders why the man heads RED’s lineup.

The rest of the evening’s order is different every night, the pattern complimenting each dancer’s plans. There’s a young man from Boston, confident and brash, full of energy—they call him Scout—and a beautiful, masked dancer with a talent for fire-juggling they call the Pyro. Mundy is an unusual specimen of an Australian, and much more subdued than the other men—but that lanky form is surprisingly flexible, and a flirtatious smile over his aviators can make anyone smitten. The Specialist… what does she specialize in, you wonder? _Oh_. It’s the hips. _Definitely_ those hips. Combine that with tall boots, and a passionate air—well, let’s say you’re not walking back to the bar while she’s onstage. A gentleman by the name Laurent dances, too, though it’s quickly clear that he is the one organizing the show each night; he’s the very picture of grace, with a step that makes you wonder if he’s classically trained. Can one be classically trained for a strip-tease?

There are others, of course, that you’re quickly able to name by your third trip. Dell, behind the bar, for one (it pays to know your bartender, after all). The bouncer at the door, you learn, is only known as Heavy, a man who grumbles from time-to-time in Russian, but no one dares speak about it. The fact of his nationality does not bother you; he seems a decent sort. Miss Pauling flits about after the show most nights to help with closing— and it takes a little while, but you figure out that she manages the business side of things while Laurent manages the artistic, though you still don’t know who actually owns the place. You’re sure neither of them are “RED Merc.”

~

It is no wonder that it’s not long before you’re a regular. Or, at least, regular enough to notice when someone new comes to the establishment and sits at the table across from yours.

At first, you take note only of his striking features—a strong brow and dark hair, greying just a little at the temples, round spectacles perched on an aquiline nose, broad shoulders beneath a twill vest, and posture that reminds you to sit up in your seat on sight. You find he’s certainly attractive enough to be onstage, but still not enough to distract you from the show.

No, you don’t _really_ take note until you see him the following weekend.

 _Dolling out ten-dollar bills_.

Hell, you can barely afford to tip Tavish a five-spot here and there among the handful of singles you bring for the evening to cover drinks and the rest of the dancers. Now that you’re paying attention, you realize that his glass is filled with champagne, and it isn’t something they open for just anyone’s sake. Not if they don’t know the whole bottle won’t be wasted, flat by the end of the evening.

You don’t even want to think about how much a bottle like that costs, and avert your gaze to sip your own poison of choice, secure in the fact that it only cost you a dollar and a half.

It just so happens you’re near the bar that night, getting another, when the gentleman orders a fourth glass. He leans just slightly across the bar, strikingly silhouetted by the low, amber lights, and you catch the measured rhythm of his voice. German. One of your fingers sounds a nervous tap on the bottom of your now-full glass. The image of your father, when he came back from the War, creeps from your memory, but—you oughtn’t judge. You have no idea how long he has been here. You still your hands, return to your seat as the sound of a trumpet swells over the soft murmur of patrons. He could well have come here to escape the atrocities, and you would never know. Better, then, to focus on the mystery of who he is, why he’s here (well, perhaps not the latter; everyone is here for approximately the same reason), than let yourself lay down needless judgement.

Your curiosity is piqued.

~

By the third weekend, you’re not just curious, you’re downright interested. You find yourself watching the man more than the dances (except your headliner, of course, watching only long enough to ascertain whether the man properly appreciated Tavish as you did). And… there’s nothing unusual. He calls no one to his side except to slide one of those tens into a hat, a smooth hand, or a glittering sash. The German gentleman simply sips from the silver rim of his glass, peers over the rims of his spectacles, and lets the tension fade from his shoulders. The smoky haze and warm lights make his features a little softer as the night goes on, and you wonder if the illusion isn’t, in part, an effect of the alcohol warming your blood.

And then, finally, _finally_ , he sits forward in his chair, and you almost fall off yours.

Ah, it’s the Specialist that’s his favorite. You let a triumphant, little grin cross your features. Halfway there. Or, you know. It’s good information, anyway. Good piece of the puzzle. You blink. It’s getting later than you thought—perhaps next time you should start more slowly on your drinking if you intend to watch the mysterious gentleman like this again.

The music swells as the woman rocks her hips, a defiant smile on her lips, and… it’s a familiar song. You prop your elbows on the table, glance again at your mark. His hands are curled tightly together, neatly perched on the edge of the burgundy tablecloth, stage lights glinting gold as they turn, in his half-empty glass. As the lights fade to cool, azure tones, it hits you—Johnny Cash’s new release. New-ish. Last year? It’s “Cocaine Blues,” anyway. The Specialist swings with the bass’ twang, shadows playing rhythmically across the planes of her face.

 _When I was arrested, I was dressed in black;_  
_They put me on a train and they took me back._  
_Had no friend for to go my bail;_  
_They slapped my dried up carcass in that county jail._

The one they call Sarge is singing tonight, in gravelly tones that match the spirit of the music, but you know your mark is hardly interested in that side of the entertainment as Specialist flicks the last button on her shirt and whips it off her shoulders with such a flourish that you think the gentleman’s nails will draw blood from his palms.

When she swings down the carpet, breasts bare to the thick, smoky air, the man’s hand shakes when he offers the money. It’s a twenty. She gives him a wink, twisting her fingers around his to slip the cash into her palm. The woman tilts her head; he shakes his. She moves on.

The gentleman removes his spectacles, and cleans them on his sleeve.

~

Later that night, after the man is gone, you utter a subtle word to Heavy in the shadow of the door.

“He comes _every night_ , Thursday through Saturday. Like clock. Always same time.” The bouncer shrugs, glancing up at the silvery, desert moon, hanging low in the black sky. “He has money. Perhaps doctor. But—not my business.” He shifts his cool gaze to you. “And not yours, either.”

~

It’s absolutely none of your business, but you have no plans to interfere. You just… like watching. Something about this whole situation is compelling, though you can’t quite put your finger on what it is.

Three more weeks it goes on like this. The gentleman comes, drinks his champagne, watches the dances, but none with such rapt attention as the Specialist. He passes her a tip. He never takes the offer of a dance—not that you blame him. You’ve never had the courage to ask for a dance yourself.

But then, the following Friday, the dynamic shifts.

~

Tonight, the band swings burning, thrumming tones. The lights are low, shadows pouring over the stage, shifting and writhing as the Specialist swings, rolls her shoulders, plays her fingers through a silken scarf. _And she sings_. She strides down the stairs, leather boots clicking on each step.

_Voulez-vous coucher avec moi—ce soir?_

Oh, hell, it’s times like this you desperately wish you spoke French.

And so does the gentleman, if his spectacles’ unattended slide down the bridge of his nose and the way his tongue flicks out to wet his lips are any indication.

She glides down the carpet, tosses her head, trails a hand along the crimson corset hugging her ribs, pushing her breasts high. And—she’s looking right at him, slowing her hips to a seductive swing at half-tempo.

Neither you nor the gentleman can look away now.

Her shoulders roll with the beat on every step, spotlight reflecting off the blue tendrils of smoke lingering on the air. She stops before the gentleman, back straight and rigid in his chair. The music swings. Your amber glass sits forgotten before you. And the woman leans down, until her nose nearly, so nearly meets his. Had you been any further from them, you would have missed her continuation of the melody:

“ _Möchten Sie mit mir schlafen? Heute?_ ”

At last, his mouth drops open.

And if he doesn’t damn well answer ‘yes’ to whatever she asked, you’ll answer for him.

But he finds his voice, nods, and as she settles on his lap, he presses his lips to her ear, whispers something you cannot hear beneath the band’s wild call, the rumble of patrons who—apparently—have no idea _something_ has happened here this evening. You’re entranced by the expert roll of her hips, the flex of her muscles beneath lace garters, the flash of light as it catches on the silver hooks of her bustier. The turn of her wrists as she invites his hands to her waist. The amber glow in the bottom of your glass. The heady, spicy press of the air as she captures his lips in a kiss.

And there, in the far corner, behind the piano, twisting a cigarette between his fingers, a smug smile on his lips, stands Laurent. He promptly shoos the six figures lingering in his shadow back behind the curtain. But there’s a fondness in his eyes when he looks back again, takes a long drag from his cigarette, and takes up the microphone.

With a wistful smile, you down the rest of your drink, and prop your elbows on the table.

**Author's Note:**

> The first song was "Cocaine Blues" by Johnny Cash, and the second was "Lady Marmalade" by Labelle... with a German rendition of the French lyrics. 
> 
> My thanks again to thatdamnokie over on Tumblr for quite the engaging idea!


End file.
